


Can You Tell?

by tweed_princess



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Neighbors, Weed mention, drunk!Jon, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweed_princess/pseuds/tweed_princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Sansa comes to Jon's apartment, and one time that she stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Tell?

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Ra Ra Riot's song of the same name.  
> Sorry for the fanfic trope. It's just fun.  
> You can find me being dumb on tumblr at disorganizeddomesticgoddess.tumblr.com. Send me prompts or adoration. Whatever.

Jon is just about to dig into a late dinner (a Domino’s pizza, which he was able to get almost for free using an insane and perhaps unethical amount of coupon codes) when a soft knock sounds at his door. He sets down the beer he has just pulled out of his crisper drawer and practically jogs over to see who it is, because it is currently 10 PM and therefore someone must have died.

Peering through the peephole, he sees that it is the gorgeous, leggy redhead that had moved in next door earlier today. She is tugging at the hem of her shirt, shifting nervously.

She smiles anxiously at him as he opens the door and leans against the frame. He hadn’t realized that he was only in a pair of pajama pants, and her cheeks turn pink as she focuses her eyes on his face.

“I’m sorry, it’s so late… I just… I can’t find my screwdriver and I need to set up my bedframe before I go to bed tonight… I would use the air bed but it has a hole and my couch isn’t arriving until tomorrow-“ She is stammering, face growing more and more red by the second. “And uh… I’m Sansa. It’s nice to meet you.”

He nods at her. “Jon. Nice to meet you, too.” Instinctively, his hands move to cover his chest, like he’s just been caught in the nude. “I have a screw driver, hold on... Do you want pizza? It’s Dominos. Unfortunately.” Her face wrinkles for a second at this and then softens, clearly trying to be polite.

“No, thank you.”

Trying to be neighborly, he invites her inside. She doesn’t move to sit on the couch as he digs through his meager toolbox (a gift from his former foster father) and he produces the only screwdriver he owns. It is a small electric one, and it has two interchangeable heads.

“Here you go, finest one on the market.” He claps his hands together after she takes it from him. What a dumb thing to say. _What the fuck is wrong with you, Snow? What are you trying to do, sell her a car?_ “Do you know how to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Put together a bed frame.”

She laughs, and it is cute. “Uh, yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks, though. I’ll see you around.” She turns to leave, and Jon furrows his brow as he goes back to his pizza and beer.

\--

A few days later, a soft knock sounds at his door again. He practically runs to the door, hoping that it is her, almost dreading that it is her, because god damn it is he an ass.

He’s seen her a few times getting the mail or when they both walk their dogs at the same time. One time he had even gotten stuck in the coffee shop near their apartment with her, and had attempted to be smooth and make conversation. That was a failure if there ever was one.

Sure enough, when he opens the door, there she is. She is wearing a pretty blue sundress. He likes sundresses. Almost as much as he likes red hair.

In one hand, she has his screwdriver; in the other is a baking pan. She sucks in a breath.

“Hi.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back. “I wanted to return this to you.” She holds it out to him and he takes it. “And I wanted to thank you. So I made you brownies.”

“Brownies,” he echoes. “I love brownies.”

“Well, good.”

Raising his eyebrows and clearing his throat, he says, “Is there anything else you would like?” He means it as a joking ploy to get more baked goods, but he realizes the potential implication behind it as soon as he says it. Her eyes go wide for a second and her face turns almost as red as her hair.

“N-no,” she stammers. _Well, she definitely thinks I’m some sort of weirdo pervert now._

“Well, thanks.” He frowns. “I’ve got… other tools…”

_Stop it._

“I’ve got salmon and asparagus in the oven and it’s going to burn if I don’t…” She points to her door, and he nods.

“Yeah. Enjoy that. I’ll see you around.”

She gives him a polite goodbye and scampers off to her apartment.

The brownies are _really_ good.

\--

This time, when she knocks on his door, he’s flustered and seriously considers pretending he’s not home. She’s persistent, however, and when he opens it, her eyes are rimmed with red and her face is wet.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bother you… I don’t know anyone else in this stupid city and I just can’t stand to be alone tonight.”

He gapes at her and then moves aside. “Yeah, sure, come in.”

She plops on the couch and he moves to the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Beer?”

She considers this for a moment. He wonders if she even likes beer.

“Sure,” she says, finally. He grabs her the lightest beer he can find in his fridge (he’s got about a million left over from different parties over the past few months), opens it with a bottle opener, and hands it to her, settling on the armchair. Leaning forward, he gives it a shot.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He’s almost hoping she says no, because he’s really bad at talking about these sorts of things.

“My boyfriend, Harry…” His heart stops beating for a split second, and she laughs, looking up at the ceiling with tears welling in her eyes. “Ex-boyfriend, I guess. My best friend from home had told me that she had seen him at some party with some girl… I called him up and he broke up with me as soon as I mentioned it.” She takes a swig from the beer and looks at the label. “Not bad.”

“I’m sorry. He sounds like a prick. He doesn’t deserve you.” He suddenly wishes that he had had foster sisters growing up. He’s awful at this ‘talking to women’ thing.

“Not your fault. I don’t know why I thought a long distance relationship with someone like Harry would work out.”

She doesn’t want to talk about Harry anymore, so they spend the rest of the night chatting. She tells him that she’s originally from Paramus, New Jersey, and is only in Ithaca for graduate school (she’s majoring in Apparel Design). She comes from a big family (three brothers and one sister, plus an entire sled team worth of Samoyeds), and her parents are both lawyers. He tells her his story, glossing over the sad stuff (doesn’t know his dad, Mom died of cancer when he was little, grew up in a foster home). How he grew up just a few minutes up the road, in Newfield, and got a scholarship to go to Cornell for agriculture and he’s currently making peanuts as an adjunct instructor at the local community college. She listens to him attentively, empathetic and understanding and laughing at the funny parts.

She finally leaves around 11 pm, thanking him for putting up with her bullshit. He wants to thank her for giving him the time of day at all, but he keeps his mouth shut, smiling and nodding and telling her to have a good night.

He doesn’t sleep very well that night.

\--

He’s noticed that she doesn’t have any friends stop by in the several weeks that she’s lived next door to him. He mentions this to Margaery, and she grins and suggests that he invite her to his Halloween party.

So he does, and she accepts.

“No costumes, though?”

“No costumes. Just alcohol, food, and scary movies.”

She arrives in a black dress and a cute little pair of black cat ears on her head anyway. “I couldn’t resist,” she says with a smile. As she walks past him to place the guacamole she’s made on his counter, he can’t help but check for a tail. Nope.

He intends to keep his alcohol consumption to a minimum, to avoid making a complete and total ass out of himself. He thinks he’s safe drinking a few beers, but for some reason the booze hits him like a ton of bricks and he almost locks himself in his bedroom out of fear of saying something stupid or creepy or just plain weird. He does that sometimes.

He corners Sam in the bathroom.

“Look, Sam. You’re the best.” Sam looks at him, brow furrowed. “You’re the best friend. Sixteen years. I am… drunk.”

“Yeah, I’d say. You do know Gilly put rum in the punch, right?”

He laughs and wags his finger in Sam’s face. “That girl. Thaaat Gilly.”

“How did you not taste rum?”

“Doesn’t matter!” He puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders, like a coach giving a football player a pep talk. “You need to make me not talk. I _really want_ to go out there and say something _really_ stupid to Sansa. I already know what I’m gonna say and it’s _really_ stupid. It’s just gonna come out as soon as I see her. You can’t let me do that.”

“And how do you expect me to do that? Should I tape your mouth shut? That’ll be a little weird, won’t it?”

He glances at the window.  

“Oh, no. Don’t jump out the window. Do you remember when you climbed through the window and broke your ankle? What is it with you and windows?”

“Alcohol,” Jon says grimly, frowning deeply. Sam winces.

A sweet voice sounds from the other side of the door. “Jon? I really have to pee. Are you okay?”

“SANSA, YOU LOOK REALLY CUTE.” He groans and slumps onto the lid of the toilet seat as soon as he says it, burying his head in his hands. It’s not the stupid thing he was afraid of saying (“You’re really beautiful and sometimes I hear you laughing from the other side of the wall and I really like your laugh!”), but he’s embarrassed anyway. He hears Margaery’s tittering laugh from the living room, and wonders if everyone at the damn party had heard him, or if something funny had happened during _Night of the Creeps_.

“Thanks…?”

Sam shrugs and smiles, an attempt at seeming helpful. “Could have been worse.”

\--

He avoids her like the plague for the next two weeks, only smiling at her in the hallway or at the coffee shop. He’s really fucked it up this time, he knows.

Not that she’d go out with him, anyway.

So he’s super surprised when she’s pounding on his door at almost midnight. He’s paranoid, so he thinks it’s a home invasion at first, or the DEA (he may or may not have a little weed in a jar tucked inconspicuously on a book shelf, but this is _Ithaca_ , for fuck’s sake). He’s not sure if he’s relieved when it turns out to be her. She looks not quite angry, but… fired up.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

“I, uh… yeah. A bit,” he admits sheepishly, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand. Her eyes narrow.

“Why?”

“I thought I’d freaked you out, I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of… lecherous neighbor creep…” She huffs.

“Do you really think I’m cute?” He gapes at her. “Or was it just the cat ears? Or the alcohol?”

“…” _You’re gorgeous and about a thousand miles out of my league._ He’s certain his face is beet red now. She raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes,” he says, lamely. “It’s just... you. You’re more than cute. You’re gorgeous. You’re great.”

She makes a funny noise in her throat and practically knocks him over as she lunges for his lips, backing him up into the apartment and kicking his door closed hard enough that the picture frames on his wall rattle. She smells citrusy, like grapefruit and lemon.

He leans into her, nudging her until she is pressed firmly against the door. Putting one hand on the wood near her head, he kisses her desperately; she moans into his mouth and claws at him, slipping her hands up the sleeves of his shirt and gripping at the muscles in his shoulders. He reluctantly pulls away from her for a moment. “You’re not like, drunk or anything…”

She shakes her head and he bends down to press her lips to his again, kissing her with fervor and stroking her (under her shirt, over her bra) for what seems like forever until she murmurs “Take me to your bed” against his lips. _YES._ He does so, happily.

They stay up until four-thirty in the morning, touching and kissing and fucking and _laughing_. He can’t remember the last time he’d been this at ease. She falls asleep, head nuzzled into his chest, and he follows soon after, hoping she’s there when he wakes up.

She is.   

\--

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Oh baby I can't even explain  
> What am I supposed to do  
> It's hard to stay cool  
> When you smile at me  
> And I get nervous every time you speak


End file.
